


Blades

by ViktoryKill



Series: The Mission X Chronicles [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Denial of Feelings, Guilt, Lance (Voltron) is a Mess, M/M, Masturbation, Other, Quickies, Sexual Confusion, Sexual Tension, Swordfighting, Training, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-25
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:53:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26104504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ViktoryKill/pseuds/ViktoryKill
Summary: Keith and Lance battle each other during training. Keith gets a hard-on, and Lance finds himself overly interested in how he deals with it.
Relationships: Keith & Lance (Voltron), Keith/Lance (Voltron)
Series: The Mission X Chronicles [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1894618
Kudos: 47





	Blades

**Author's Note:**

> Not my characters, I'm just fucking around.

" _Get ready! At the sound of the Oraton, begin maneuvers!_ "

Lance rolled his eyes. Oraton his foot. It just sounded like any generic glitch audio. But the supervisors always had to complicate things, all for the sake of sounding elite (and maybe they did amaze some rookies from time to time with all that gab).

His attitude, already kinda sunny, brightened when he realized who he was pitted against.

Keith Kogane. The highest-ranked.

It was great just how many times Lance ended up sparring with this guy. He would've thought Keith was way out of his class - Lance _was_ ranked fourth, after all - but for whatever reason, the supervisors kept pairing them again and again. He didn't mind. A chance to fight with the best was right up his alley, and he enjoyed keeping Keith on his toes for every second of their combat.

What Lance didn't realize was that he had the gift of unorthodoxy.

Keith excelled in strictly regimented exercises, where he was well-acquainted with all the battle techniques and knew, in a split second, which was which and how to react. What he didn't have, at least not at the moment, was the gift of instinct. Knowing, without recognizing the moves beforehand, how to respond. Improvising a strategy regardless of the situation.

When Keith encountered an unexpected situation, he tended to freeze. Get confused. Slash blindly, ultimately rescued only by his natural skill at turning defense into offense, and reading what would make a final blow.

Lance, once again, was the opposite. He was a natural-trained fighter, self-taught until an academy took note of his prowess during a local contest. Everything he did was based on his instincts. He barely knew the names of any formal positions and moves, but it didn't matter; at the end of the day, who cares what the names are - if you know how to fight, you're going places.

This contrast gave their fights a strange beauty, as most contrasts will.

Keith held his blade tightly in his fist, eyes turning colder than usual. His battle face, if you will. Glared straight at Lance, as if he were lacerating his skin in his mind.

Lance grinned back, one eyebrow raised. A "you-really-think-that-scares-me" look. Bring it on, man!

The Oraton sounded off, signaling the start of their match.

For a few seconds they were dormant, sizing up the situation, planning blows and attacks. Keith made the first move, charging forward with a perfectly executed stroke.

Lance raised his own sword to catch the brunt of the attack, and they glanced off each other.

Keith lunged again, and once again Lance caught the blow before it could do any damage. For a while they fought like this, driving each other into corners, locked together in stalemate.

Then Lance thought he saw his opening. Keith was driving mainly to the right, where Lance seemed vulnerable, while Lance was driving more towards the left. What to do? Feint, of course. Feint twice.

The first feint did not confuse Keith; he kept his drive towards Lance's unguarded region. But Lance feinted once again, as if he really intended to strike to the right this time. And this time, it worked.

Keith switched over, a glint of blood lust in his eyes. He could smell the victory, driving left into Lance's -

Wait.

Metal hit metal.

Lance had guarded it.

What. The. Fuck.

Keith burned with annoyance. How could he not have seen this coming?

Once again they were locked in stalemate, each trying to disarm the other, each thwarting the other's attack and counterattack.

Keith's eyes blazed, while Lance grinned slightly to himself. This was so much fun! He could practically hear the 8-bit music dancing around in his head.

He pressed Keith further into the corner, making fierce drives all the while. One, two, three. Keith was having a hard time fending him off. At the fourth strike, he fairly had him pinned against the wall.

Damn.

Was he going to win this one?

One look into Keith's eyes told him probably not. Keith may have seemed in a passive position, heaving against the wall, but his eyes had a clear sadistic glint. Almost burning a shade of red. Lance had seen it before - always before Keith slammed the final blow. Lance thought quickly. What should he do to keep him from making it?

Oh shit.

Keith lunged forward, his drive channelled with concentrated fury, straight against Lance's sword, at just the right angle. Lance couldn't keep ahold of it, and it slid violently across the floor.

At once, Keith was on top of him, pointing his sword lightly onto his chest.

"Feh," he said contemptuously. "I got ya."

"Yeah," said Lance, breathlessly. Why did he feel so good? It was the adrenaline, surely. And maybe the fact that he'd come pretty close, once again, to out-playing the highest-ranked student in the sector.

He couldn't take his eyes from Keith's face, which was only a few inches away from him. The eyes were so wild, yet concentrated. Like a predatory wolf eyeing its victim, trying to decide what was the best way to devour it.

Again, he had to just appreciate how nice his face was. Not like he was admiring it to a ridiculous extent, ya know, but come on. Nice is nice.

And then he felt it. Keith's hard-on against his leg. 

Lance's eyes popped open. Did Keith realize it? Clearly not, from the unperturbed, victorious expression on his face.

"Very good!" the supervisor called out over the telecom. "Five minute interval! Then it's hand-eye!"

Keith immediately got to his feet and walked away, putting his sword back on the wall with all the others, then heading towards the showers. 

Lance slowly got up, too, dusting himself off carefully.

Well, _that_ had been an experience. Sure, not that odd - it's normal to get kind of excited during physical activity, after all. What surprised Lance more was his own reaction.

He'd **_liked_** it, for sure. More than maybe he should have. 

Lance chuckled nervously out loud. _Come on, man. You're out for the ladies. It's just - what's it called? - situational._

_That's it._

_Situationally induced weirdness._

Sure, it didn't explain everything. The times he'd stared at Keith - subtlely, of course - in ways and in places that were far from appropriate. 

Nah, _**that**_ could be explained by sheer curiosity. Come on, who wouldn't stare at a guy with that kind of equipment? Especially when you thought you were the one who had it going on? It was scientific curiosity, ya know? Or something like that. That's all.

* * *

Lance went quietly into the shower room. He wasn't planning to be stealthy, but for whatever reason he never went in there as jauntily and noisily as he went in most places. Maybe it was the ridiculous ambience that amplified every sound like a cathedral, or a church.

Or maybe he just didn't want to surprise anyone. Not that anyone really got surprised in these close living quarters, but still...

Lance nodded to the other guys in the room, pointing at a few, saying, "Yo, what's up?" Just being Lance, pretty much.

Keith was sitting to the side, as usual, as far in the corner as he could be. He loathed it when his libido flared, it always seemed to happen at the most inconvenient goddamn times. As if it were spiting him. And here he was, with only a few minutes before the next session, and he couldn't even close the fly of his uniform.

Damn.

He pulled out his hand-blade, the one he always carried around his waist, and discreetly started rubbing it against his dick. The friction felt great. If only he was by himself...

He quickly got to his feet and, trying not to look anything but normal, took large strides down the hall. The walk-in closet in the corner, where archaic relics of old weaponry were stored - that would give him some privacy.

The moment he knew he was alone, Keith went at it again, but faster this time.

Come on, come on, come on!

He was pissed, he didn't have all day. And the faster he got it over with, the less guilty and gross he'd feel for doing it in the first place.

His body jolted with stimulation as the blood rushed down, and he smiled involuntarily, closing his eyes as waves of pleasure washed over him. He thrusted and beat it by turns, breathing faster, heavier.

He didn't want to make too much noise; he wasn't _that_ far away from the other guys, after all. But as he reached the height of his climax, he bit into his tongue and the grunt rumbled in his chest, a muted expression of the relief he felt.

He sighed, wiping the slick off his shirt. Thank god he was finally able to pull up his fly. And with less than a minute to spare, he noted, looking at his watch. Time to take off back to the fighting arenas.

What he didn't note was Lance, who had been there the whole time, and was now slack-jawed as he pressed himself against the wall in the hallway. Why did he think that whole thing had been... so amazing?

Why had he been watching this dude give himself a quickie? It was like a flashback to the first time they'd met, only this time - thank jeebers - Keith hadn't seen him.

Lance licked his lips - out of anxiety, surely. 

Eh, he was just curious. Who wouldn't be - dude was fucking himself with a switchblade, for Christ's sake. A beautiful blade, at that. And those sighs, that smile. You thought you were feeling good, eh? Shit, that was nothing compared to the way _I_ could make you feel if I -

"Wait, what?" Lance was so shocked he blurted it aloud.

The glitch sound echoed around the room: the next session was starting.

Dammit.

"Just confusion. Situational confusion, bud, don't even sweat it," Lance muttered nervously, mentally patting himself on the back. "More important things to focus on right now. C'mon!"

He grabbed his sword from the table, and ran to the fighting arenas.

* * *

Later, it was nearly midnight.

Lance was in the mess hall, getting a snack. A midnight snack, basically, of cherry-flavored vitamins. When he returned to the room he shared with Keith and two other cadets, he knew he was still the only one awake, so he made sure to move softly, even as he sucked a bit loudly on the vitamin tablets. His eyes fell on Keith almost immediately.

He was laying on his side, sleeping lightly, with shallow breaths. His eyelids flickered. Rapid eye movements, Lance recalled absently. He was dreaming.

His fingers moved slowly, gripping at his sheets, then slipped outwards, as if he were throwing a dart.

Dreaming of a fight, most likely. A training sequence. A specific maneuver.

Because of course that's what he would dream about. Keith had a very one-track mind sometimes, at least from what Lance could tell.

Keith rolled over sluggishly, burying himself under the covers until all you could see were his white sneakers (which he slept in for whatever reason).

Oh well.

Lance sighed uneasily and got into his own bed. He didn't know why, but he felt like he had to clarify his actions for his own peace of mind.

_I'm just bein' a mate, makin' sure he's okay. That's why I was looking at him just now. I looked at everybody, for Pete's sake. Fuck it!_

**Author's Note:**

> Open for story suggestions, yeah, so if you've got an idea, slide into my inbox (or my outbox down in the comments, heh-heh).


End file.
